My Lyft driver Maria and I sat at the corner of N. Plymouth and Melrose, watching cars zip by, her left turn blinker clicking rhythmically. I stared across the narrow boulevard at the Paramount lot, realizing that I was so close, and yet I had no idea what I was doing. Finally, I told her to take a right, and loop around, since I think I was going in the Gower gate anyway. That’s how I said it, as if I had a clue of what the Gower gate consisted of.

I had gotten stoned before she picked me up for an exclusive after-hours event held on the Paramount lot hosted by an alcohol company. A friend of mine’s boyfriend works in a restaurant and his supplier got the three of us tickets, and it was all I could think about for a week. Free alcohol? Decent food? People who think they’re movers and shakers? All of this happening on, what I believe to be, the most iconic studio lot. So I sat in her car as she circled the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and tried to think of a good tweet about how interesting it was that one of the most famous studio lots sits adjacent to a cemetery, where everyone from Mickey Rooney to a couple with the unfortunate last name of Führer are buried. Ultimately, I decided against it.

After entering the Gower gate (which existed! And I found!) I saw either an out-of-work actor, a Paramount page, or both idling in a studio golf cart. The couple ahead of me plopped down in a seat, so I figured this was either a shuttle to the event or a very well thought out kidnapping. Full of confidence from finding the entrance and being high, I marched up to the young man and asked him if I could take the front seat. For some reason, in my mind, this was not allowed, or frowned up, or maybe just a studio faux pas that I wasn’t privy to. But no, he smiled back at me, showing his beautiful, probably-Invisaligned teeth and said, “sure!”

We rode through the lot on a dizzying path, past warehouses and parking lots and bungalows (note: I did not see one Roman soldier or Ziegfield dancer wandering around, which bums me out, but I persevered). At one point we drove past the Paramount water tower and I withheld a gasp, proud of myself. I did snap a pic though, because I’m an Angeleno, not dead inside. There are a few things in this city that a resident must pretend to be blasé about: the Hollywood sign, a man jerking off outside a California donuts, seeing a film crew setting up at your favorite diner. However, I refuse to pretend that I wasn’t completely stoked to be on a lot where Duck Soup, Rear Window, and Rizzoli and Isles were shot.

When the shuttle dropped us off, I loitered for a minute, wondering if it would be better to wait for my friends outside the event or if a stoned girl with a ratty backpack standing alone might be sus. I finally decided that I was an adult who could do things on her own, so in I went. Ever the prepared attendee, I had my ID and my ticket ready to present, but they only asked for my ID. I guess they figured no one would try to gatecrash the event. I was given a rundown of what all there was to eat, drink, and do (kabobs! beer! A CARICATURIST!) and I did a slow turn, taking it all in. What iconic actors and actresses and directors and writers had walked these streets? How many people had sex, or were killed, or were hired or fired, within this small area? Why does that guy over there look familiar?

My friends arrived shortly after, and we began wandering through the streets of New York, twinkle lights strung across the fake telephone poles. We got our free drinks, scoped out the place, and decided that waiting in a 30 person line for a caricaturist might not be ideal, especially since he probably wouldn’t customize it and draw me on a skateboard. There were waiters carrying canes around, parallel to the ground, with buttered pretzels looped on them; my friend barreled through the crowd to get one caterer’s final snack. Beers in hand and butter on our fingers, we worked our way through the crowded three blocks. Who were these people? Were they all in the restaurant business, like my friend, or did some of them snag invitations as an industry networking opportunity? OK, that guy is definitely someone — is he on a show or something?

The food stations were bustling, but there was only a line for the ice cream sundae section. Otherwise, it was buffet-style with pasta, french fries, chicken kabobs, and giant baguettes that may just have been part of the decoration, but were delicious all the same. We sat on a stoop near the back, in the more grimier part of Manhattan, and chowed down. At one point I looked across the street, into a third floor window, and saw a light breeze blowing the curtains. I knew realistically that this was literally a facade, that the only thing behind those walls were metal beams and lights, but nonetheless — I felt a twinge in my heart.

A funky, modern-day ragtime band played covers of Niall Horan and Dua Lipa songs. I got the picture I wanted — me, on a stoop, chomping on a baguette — and my friend started leading us to the exit. We checked the caricaturist’s line again; there was about an hour left, and 40 people waiting patiently. Next time, I thought to myself, pretending that there would be one. By the entrance, we got free glasses that the company was handing out, and there was a glass blower next to the cart, making them from scratch. Across the path, caterers were handing out free bags of apple chips, but when my friend found out they were cardamom flavored, she scrunched her nose. “Pass,” she said, wandering back to us, jutting her head towards the exit. Once a free bag of chips doesn’t motivate you to stay, it’s time to depart.

The only hiccup of the night, if you could even call it that, was when we headed towards the shuttle area. My friend who, as a baby intern seven years ago, worked on the lot, was determined to show us around, rules be damned. We made it past the first group of distracted event workers, walked down a shadowy alley next to a bungalow that almost definitely was where a famous script was noted to death, and…came face to face with four burly security guards. My friend put on her beaming-est smile.

“Hi! I know we aren’t supposed to be here — ”

The de facto leader of the crew folded his arms, immediately saying “nope” in such a condescending way that I felt it was a necessity for me to tear past him, charging deep down the rows of emptied studios.

“ — but I used to work on this lot,” she continued bravely, “and I wanted to show them around.”

“Nope” he said again, tightening his arms around his chest, wringing out the last of his intimidating testosterone. It wasn’t worth it. We smiled politely and turned away.

On the shuttle back, I forced the three of us to squeeze into the backward-facing seats on the golf cart. I watched the lot speeding away from me, the water tower looming over the buildings. I sighed. I had been there for maybe 90 minutes, but it was perfect. There’s a weird privilege with these events, how everyone’s instagram picture is a well-lit nighttime backlot shot of them looking chill in front of a fake flower shop, but the short interactions I had with other people seemed to be distributors of the company, or restaurateurs, or friends of people who had an in. On such a fake piece of property, everyone was genuine and kind. A girl gave us her fries because they were too salty for her. A couple of women leaving a stoop lingered there so we could snag it from them. It was hard to convince myself that this wasn’t a real block party, somewhere in the city.

As we disembarked the golf cart, I locked eyes with the guy I had been seeing all night. Yep, he was an actor on a Shonda Rhimes show. Hollywood is so weird.